第參章、月下的迷茫
Chapter 3: Bewilderment Under the Moon
戰鬥後的夜晚，御神宅邸重歸於壓抑的寧靜。
然而這份寧靜並不純粹。空氣中雖已被淨化，卻仍殘留著一縷若有若無的氣息，像是夜霧裡難以驅散的陰影，隱隱暗示著什麼。
在清潔神體的過程裡，透過觸感與生理細節，讓御神櫻像在與「曾經的自己」對話，形成微妙的親暱與疏離矛盾。
她獨自留在本殿。巨大的空間裡，只有一盞常明燈，在神龕前散發著微弱而堅定的光暈，將她的影子拉得很長，投在光潔的木地板上，隨火焰輕輕晃動。空氣中檀香的餘味與妖魔瘴氣被淨化後殘留的淡淡清冽氣息混合在一起，形成一種專屬於戰後的奇異味道。
她肢體的傷口已簡單處理過，劃痕、創口和幾處瘀青被草藥敷料覆蓋，傳來清涼的刺痛感。身體是疲憊的，但精神卻異常清醒。戰鬥時的高度集中力褪去後，那些被暫時壓下的思緒便如同夜霧般無聲地蔓延開來，充斥著她的內心。
她的目光，不由自主地投向神龕。
更準確地說，是投向端坐於神龕中央的那具軀體——她的軀體，也是神櫻的神體。
祂靜靜地立在那裡，背脊挺直，沐浴在柔和的櫻色光暈中。沒有頭顱與四肢的連接，它更像一尊完美無瑕的藝術品，聖潔、莊嚴，散發著令人心生敬畏的距離感。
御神櫻端來一盆用靈力淨化過的清水，水中浸著一塊柔軟白布。她跪坐在神體前，深吸一口氣，開始履行身為巫女最重要的職責之一——清潔神體。
這是一個極其詭異，卻又必須極度虔誠的過程。
她擰乾白布，開始清潔，動作輕柔得彷彿怕驚醒一場易碎的夢。冰涼的布料首先拂過神體的肩膀，擦拭那光滑細膩的皮膚。指尖隔著布料，能清晰地感受到其下骨骼的形狀與肌膚的溫潤彈性。
這觸感…太過熟悉了。她心中閃過一種錯位感：明明是在侍奉神明，卻更像在撫觸一個曾經最熟悉的朋友——「昨日的自己」。
十八年來，每一次沐浴，每一次更衣，這具身體都與她同在。她熟悉它每一處細微的曲線，知道哪裡有一顆不起眼的小痣，記得青春期時它如何悄然變化。它曾因寒冷而起雞皮疙瘩，曾因發燒而滾燙，也曾因羞澀而心臟狂跳。
每拭過一處曲線，熟悉感便越是強烈。她彷彿聽見身體在低語。
而如今，她卻要像對待一件獨立於自己的無上珍寶一樣，小心翼翼地侍奉「祂」。
荒謬與親暱同時湧上心頭，她的手一瞬間顫抖，白布幾至滑落。那具神體依然靜立不語，聖潔無瑕，在她眼中卻彷彿發出無聲的嘲弄。
白布緩緩下移，擦拭過手臂、肋側、腰腹…她的動作標準而恭敬，如同古籍中描繪的最恪守禮儀的巫女。但她的內心，卻翻騰著與這份恭敬截然相反的驚濤駭浪。
當擦拭到腰側時，她的指尖無意間按壓到一處。幾乎是同時，一股來自內部腸道的輕微蠕動感，透過那靈魂相連的奇異紐帶，隱約傳遞到她的意識裡。
看吧。它依然在履行著一具活生生肉體的功能。它會餓，會渴，需要排泄，會有各種生理反應和私密感受。
昨日她忍不住，偷偷吃了一塊藏起來的蜂蜜羊羹，那過分的甜膩此刻似乎還殘留在「神」的胃囊中，讓她感到一絲微妙的負罪感。還有練習時不小心撞到的淤青，在神體白皙的皮膚上還留著一小塊淡紫色的痕跡。
這些最世俗、最私密，甚至有些難堪的細節，如今卻存在於這具被賦予至高神性，接受族人頂禮膜拜的「神體」之上。
荒謬感如同冰冷的藤蔓，纏繞住她的心臟，緩緩收緊。
「這…真的是神嗎？」大不敬的念頭，不受控制地浮現。
她侍奉的，究竟是一個抽象而崇高的信仰概念，還是…僅僅是她自已那被神格化卻依舊擺脫不了凡人需求的身體？
她連忙搖頭，試圖驅散這瀆神的想法。褻瀆神櫻，即是褻瀆家族數代人的期盼與犧牲，更是對自身存在意義的全盤否定。
她強迫自己集中精神，完成最後的清潔。動作越發輕柔，彷彿不是在擦拭神體，而是在安撫自己那顆因迷茫而顫動的心。
清潔完畢，她為神體換上一套嶄新而莊嚴的純白巫女服，仔細繫好每一個結。現在，它看起來更符合人們對一尊「神像」的想像了——完美、無瑕、遙不可及。
夜色更深。皎潔的月光突破雲層，如同銀白的紗幔，從高窗傾瀉而下，正好籠罩住神龕。沒有頭顱與四肢的神體靜立於月光中，週身那櫻色的光暈與清冷的月華交相輝映，皮膚彷彿變得半透明，如同最上等的白玉雕琢而成，聖潔得不似人間之物，卻又…脆弱得令人心驚。
御神櫻凝視著這一幕，心中那股難以言喻的情緒幾乎要滿溢出來。她跪著的雙腿緩緩站立，走到神體面前，靈魂絲線悄然探出，輕柔地連接。她的雙手小心翼翼地捧起那具沉默而散發著微光的軀幹，如同捧起世間最易碎又最沉重的寶物，將其輕柔地安放在自已併攏的腿上。然後，頭顱與雙手順從地回歸本位。
咔。
熟悉的契合感傳來，肢體和靈魂層面的對接完成，完整的感官再次降臨。視野回落，神經訊號重新統合了所有肢體。既熟悉又陌生的奇異充實感讓她渾身輕輕一顫，彷彿離家片刻再歸來，傢俱擺設依舊，空氣中卻殘留著陌生的氣息，這感覺讓她忍不住微微顫抖。
御神櫻為這完整的自已完成巫女正裝穿著，每一個動作都緩慢而專注。
然後，她開始在月光下起舞。
神樂舞的步法早已融入骨髓。每一個迴旋，每一次揚袖，都優美而莊重，充滿了對神明最深的敬意與無盡的祈求。緋袴的裙擺蕩開圓弧，長髮在腦後劃出墨色的軌跡。她的舞姿無可挑剔，是奉獻給神櫻的無聲禱告；但偶爾的停頓與顫抖，卻洩漏了心中的掙扎。那並非眾人眼中的完美神樂，而是帶著裂痕的祈禱。
她在為神櫻舞蹈，也在為自已內心無處安放的困惑尋找一個出口。
舞姿間，她恍惚感覺神體在隨她共舞，卻又與她不同調。每一次旋轉，像是她與自己曾經的軀殼對話。
她的眼神卻透過舞蹈的儀式感，飄向了遠方。迷茫如同月光下淡淡的影子，與她如影隨形。她與神的距離，似乎在這舞蹈中既被拉近，又被推遠。
舞蹈終了，御神櫻微喘著氣，低頭看向被月光與櫻色光暈籠罩的軀體。軀體完美無瑕，卻在此刻顯得異常脆弱。
她還是那位侍奉神明的巫女，然而有些東西已經不一樣了。
深入骨髓的迷茫，並未隨著身體的完整而消散，反而更深地鐫刻在她那雙看似清澈的眼眸深處。她靜靜地正坐在月光裡，許久未曾動彈。
殿內靜極。就在御神櫻以為夜晚終究歸於平靜時，忽有一縷花瓣無風自落，從神社庭院的櫻樹枝頭緩緩飄下，貼著紙門滑入殿內，靜靜落在神體胸口。
同一瞬間，遠方傳來低沉的鳴響，像是大地深處的某種獸吼；又像是看不見的鐘聲，短暫卻震顫人心。
御神櫻的心臟猛然一緊。她努力壓下不安，重新正坐，將身姿調整為巫女該有的端正模樣。
然而那股濃重的迷茫，卻在這落花與低鳴中更深地烙印進眼底。
她侍奉神，同時也在與「自己」對話。而這場對話，已不再能以沉默來回避。
———
時光在御神家的神社裡，流淌得格外緩慢黏稠。
庭院裡的櫻花樹，已第七次綻放如雲霞，又第七次凋零成雨。這盛放與飄零的循環，卻未在御神櫻身上刻下任何痕跡。她凝視著鏡中那張依舊十八歲的面龐。光滑緊緻，飽含青春的所有特徵，彷彿歲月這把刻刀，在她這裡徹底失了效。時間如同冷卻的鑄鐵，將她的外在形貌牢牢凝固在成為神櫻巫女的那一夜。
然而，鏡子只能映出表象。
唯有她自已，才能看見那雙清澈眼眸深處的變化。最初的緊張與決然已被磨去鋒芒，取而代之的是經年累月積澱下來的迷茫，如同深潭底部盤旋的暗流。無數次與妖魔的慘烈搏殺，無數個獨自面對神櫻的寂靜夜晚，都在那眼底鐫刻下無形的年輪。
她曾天真地以為，隨著時日推移，她會愈發理解自已存在的形式，能觸摸到神櫻那深邃的本質。但現實卻是，每一次頭顱與四肢脫離軀幹，每一次以巫女的身份驅動那份力量，都像是在她與「神」之間又鑿開了一道無形的鴻溝。她越是依賴這份力量，便越是清晰地感覺自己像個精密的傀儡；而操控她的線，一頭連著家族沉重的期盼，另一頭則連著一個她無法理解、無法溝通的抽象存在。
神櫻並非擁有具體形象與意志的神明。祂是家族傾盡心血打造的奇蹟，是龐大信仰與櫻花概念的聚合體，是她得以施展力量的絕佳「介面」。而她的軀幹，便是這介面在現世的映射。沒有低語，沒有啟示，所有的指引都晦澀如夜空的星光，需要她極度虔誠地放空自我，才能在恍惚的邊緣捕捉到一絲模糊的波動，再憑藉艱苦修煉得來的技藝，將其轉化為行動的準繩。
今夜，月光如水銀瀉地，再次將本殿內照得一片清冷澄澈。
儀式性的清潔已然完成。御神櫻（頭顱）懸浮著，指揮著自己的雙手，以最輕柔的動作，撫摸那具端坐於神龕中央，沐浴在銀輝與櫻色光暈中的軀幹。
指尖傳來的觸感溫潤而熟悉，帶著生命的微暖。這皮膚的紋理，骨骼的形狀，她曾與之共生。一種混合著虔敬與親暱的複雜愉悅，自指尖流淌而來，讓她心尖微顫。
『這份愉悅…是我的，還是神櫻的？』 『若神櫻是概念，祂如何感知？』 『若感知來自這具身體，那這份愉悅，豈非仍是「我」的？』
思緒如同糾纏的絲線，理不清，剪不斷。
然而，在她心中，那朵迷茫的烏雲從未散去，反而在靜默中愈發濃重。她奉侍的對象，是抽象的概念？是她自已的軀體？還是由這二者結合所產生的，她無法定義的第三類存在？
與神櫻同行的日子漫長得望不到頭，這具熟悉又陌生的身體已成為她存在的全部，即使她從未真正習慣。
有時，當那些瀆神的荒誕思緒再次襲上心頭，她會試圖用一種戲謔的方式來自洽：『這些念頭，或許正是神櫻允許我擁有的吧？畢竟，驅動我產生這些想法的心，此刻也正安穩地待在神體之內跳動著。那麼，這算是我的不敬，還是神櫻的某種默許甚至期待？』
這些想法，偶爾會催生出一些僅屬於她一個人的大膽秘儀。
她曾故意將神體浸入露天溫泉，看溫熱的泉水包裹那光滑的肌膚，感受那份透過靈魂連結傳遞過來的舒適鬆弛。『這會讓神櫻感到愉悅嗎？還是會…讓祂熱到冒煙？嘻嘻。』她揣測著。
她也曾偷偷嘗一口辛辣的食物，然後側耳傾聽，直到那安靜的神體內部傳來一聲細微卻清晰的腸鳴。『瞧，』她會對自己說，帶著一種苦澀的笑意，『神明的腸胃，也會因凡俗的食物而蠕動。這咕嚕聲，是神櫻的，還是我的？或許是我們一起覺得開心？』
這些刻意為之的小小褻瀆，成了她對抗那無孤獨與荒謬感的唯一方式，是她在一片混沌的信仰中，為自己尋找的微小立足點。
她依舊是神櫻的巫女，御神家的劍與盾。但她的內心深處，答案依舊遙遠，而問題已深植於心。
In the night following the battle, a stifling tranquility returned to the Mikami estate.
Yet this tranquility was not pure. Although the air had been purified, a faint, lingering presence remained, like a shadow in the night fog that could not be dispelled, subtly hinting at something more to come.
The process of cleansing the divine body forced Mikami Sakura into a dialogue with her "former self" through touch and physiological detail, creating a subtle contradiction of intimacy and alienation.
She remained alone in the main hall. In the vast space, only a single eternal lamp before the shrine cast a weak but steady glow, stretching her shadow long across the polished wooden floor, where it swayed gently with the flame. The lingering scent of sandalwood mixed with the cool, clean air left after the miasma’s purification, creating a strange aroma unique to the aftermath of battle.
The wounds on her limbs had been simply treated. Scratches, cuts, and a few bruises were covered with herbal poultices that sent a cool, stinging sensation through her. Her body was exhausted, but her mind was unnaturally awake. As the heightened concentration of battle faded, the thoughts she had suppressed began to spread silently like the night fog, filling her heart.
Her gaze drifted, involuntarily, to the shrine.
More precisely, to the torso that sat within it—her torso, and also the divine body of Shin-ou.
It stood there silently, its back straight, bathed in a soft, sakura-colored aura. Without the head and limbs attached, it looked more like a flawless work of art—holy, solemn, and exuding a distance that inspired awe.
Mikami Sakura brought over a basin of water that had been purified with spiritual power, a soft white cloth soaking within. She knelt before the divine body, took a deep breath, and began to perform one of her most important duties as a shrine maiden—cleansing the divine body.
It was an exceedingly bizarre, yet deeply pious, process.
She wrung out the cloth and began to wipe, her movements so gentle it was as if she were afraid of waking a fragile dream. The cool cloth first brushed across the body's shoulders, cleansing the smooth, delicate skin. Through the cloth, her fingertips could clearly feel the shape of the bones beneath and the warm elasticity of the flesh.
This sensation… it was too familiar. A sense of dislocation flashed through her mind: she was supposed to be serving a god, yet it felt more like she was caressing a once-intimate friend—"the self of yesterday."
For eighteen years, with every bath and every change of clothes, this body had been with her. She knew its every subtle curve, knew where an inconspicuous mole was hidden, and remembered how it had quietly changed during puberty. It had broken out in goosebumps from the cold, grown feverish with heat, and its heart had pounded with shyness.
With every curve she wiped, the sense of familiarity grew stronger. It was as if she could hear the body whispering.
And now, she had to serve "It" with the utmost care, as if it were a supreme treasure, separate from herself.
Absurdity and intimacy surged in her heart at once. Her hand trembled for a moment, and the white cloth nearly slipped from her grasp. The divine body remained silent and still, holy and flawless, yet in her eyes, it seemed to offer a silent mockery.
The cloth moved slowly downward, wiping across the arms, ribs, and abdomen… Her movements were precise and respectful, like those of the most devout shrine maiden depicted in ancient texts. But inside, her heart was a tempest of emotions that directly contradicted this reverence.
As she wiped its side, her fingertips unintentionally pressed into a spot. Almost simultaneously, a faint sensation of intestinal movement from within was vaguely transmitted to her consciousness through the strange tether of their shared soul.
See? It still performs the functions of a living, breathing body. It gets hungry, it gets thirsty, it needs to excrete, and it has all sorts of physiological reactions and private feelings.
Yesterday, unable to resist, she had secretly eaten a piece of honey yokan she had hidden away. The cloying sweetness now seemed to still linger in the "god's" stomach, making her feel a subtle pang of guilt. And there was the bruise from when she had accidentally bumped into something during practice, still a small, faint purple mark on the body's fair skin.
These most mundane, most private, even somewhat embarrassing details, now existed upon this "divine body"—a vessel endowed with the highest sanctity, an object of the clan's prostrate worship.
The sense of absurdity, like a cold vine, wrapped around her heart and slowly tightened.
"Is this... really a god?" The sacrilegious thought surfaced, beyond her control.
Was she serving an abstract, noble concept of faith, or... merely her own body, deified yet still unable to escape its mortal needs?
She quickly shook her head, trying to banish the profane thought. To desecrate Shin-ou was to desecrate the hopes and sacrifices of generations of her family; it was a complete negation of her own reason for being.
She forced herself to concentrate and finish the cleansing. Her movements became even more gentle, as if she were not wiping the divine body, but soothing her own trembling, bewildered heart.
Once finished, she dressed the divine body in a new, solemn set of pure white shrine maiden robes, carefully tying each knot. Now, it looked more like what people imagined a "divine statue" to be—perfect, flawless, and untouchable.
The night deepened. A bright moon broke through the clouds, its light pouring down from the high window like a silvery veil, perfectly enveloping the shrine. The headless, limbless body stood in the moonlight, its sakura-colored aura mingling with the cool lunar glow. Its skin seemed to become translucent, as if carved from the finest white jade—so holy it seemed otherworldly, yet so… fragile it was startling.
Mikami Sakura gazed at the scene, the inexpressible emotion in her heart threatening to overflow. She rose from her kneeling position and walked to the divine body. The soul threads quietly extended and gently connected. She carefully lifted the silent, glowing torso with both hands, as if holding the world’s most fragile yet heaviest treasure, and gently placed it upon her own lap. Then, her head and hands obediently returned to their original positions.
Click.
The familiar sense of alignment returned as the connection on both the physical and spiritual planes was completed. Full sensory perception was restored. Her vision returned to its normal height, and nerve signals reintegrated all her limbs. A strange sense of completeness, both familiar and alien, sent a slight shiver through her. It was like returning home after a brief absence to find the furniture all in its place, but a strange scent lingering in the air. The feeling made her tremble slightly.
Mikami Sakura finished dressing her complete self in the formal shrine maiden attire, each movement slow and deliberate.
Then, she began to dance in the moonlight.
The steps of the Kagura dance were ingrained in her very bones. Every turn, every sweep of her sleeves, was elegant and solemn, filled with the deepest reverence and endless supplication to the god. The hem of her scarlet hakama swung out in a perfect circle, her long hair tracing an inky arc behind her. Her dance was flawless, a silent prayer dedicated to Shin-ou. But the occasional pause, the slight tremor, betrayed the struggle within her heart. This was not the perfect Kagura others saw, but a fractured prayer.
She was dancing for Shin-ou, but also seeking an outlet for the confusion in her heart that had nowhere else to go.
In the midst of the dance, she felt as if the divine body were dancing with her, yet out of sync. Each spin felt like a conversation with her own former shell.
But her gaze, through the ritual of the dance, drifted to a place far away. Bewilderment, like a faint shadow in the moonlight, followed her every move. In the dance, it felt as though the distance between her and the god was both closing and widening.
The dance ended. Mikami Sakura, breathing lightly, looked down at the body enveloped in moonlight and sakura-hued light. The body was flawless, yet at this moment, it seemed exceptionally fragile.
She was still the shrine maiden who served the god, yet something had changed.
The bone-deep confusion had not vanished with the reassembly of her body; instead, it had become more deeply etched in the depths of her seemingly clear eyes. She sat quietly in the moonlight, motionless for a long time.
The hall was utterly still. Just as Sakura thought the night would finally settle into peace, a single flower petal drifted down without a breeze. It floated from a branch of the cherry tree in the shrine's courtyard, slid past the paper door, and landed silently on the divine body’s chest.
At the same instant, a low rumble echoed from the distance. It sounded like the roar of some beast from deep within the earth, or perhaps an unseen bell, its toll brief yet soul-shaking.
Sakura’s heart seized. She forced down her unease and returned to a formal seated posture, adjusting herself to the proper dignity of a shrine maiden.
But the thick fog of bewilderment was branded even deeper into her eyes by the falling petal and the low rumble.
She served a god, and at the same time, she conversed with "herself." And this was a conversation that could no longer be avoided with silence.
———
Time within the Mikami shrine flowed with a slow, viscous quality.
The cherry tree in the courtyard had bloomed like a sea of clouds for the seventh time, and for the seventh time, its blossoms had scattered like rain. Yet this cycle of blooming and falling had left no mark on Mikami Sakura. She stared at the face in the mirror, still that of an eighteen-year-old. It was smooth and firm, possessing all the hallmarks of youth, as if the carving knife of time had lost its edge on her. Time had solidified her external form, freezing her on the night she became the shrine maiden of Shin-ou.
However, the mirror could only reflect the surface.
Only she could see the change in the depths of her clear eyes. The initial tension and resolve had been worn smooth, replaced by a bewilderment that had accumulated over the years, like a dark current swirling at the bottom of a deep pool. Countless brutal battles with demons, countless silent nights spent alone with Shin-ou, had all carved their own invisible rings of age in her gaze.
She had once naively believed that, with time, she would come to better understand her form of existence, that she would be able to touch the profound essence of Shin-ou. But the reality was that every time her head and limbs detached from her torso, every time she wielded that power as a shrine maiden, it was like carving another invisible chasm between her and the "god." The more she relied on this power, the more clearly she felt like an elaborate puppet. The strings that controlled her were tied on one end to the heavy expectations of her family, and on the other, to an abstract entity she could neither comprehend nor communicate with.
Shin-ou was not a god with a concrete form or will. It was a miracle forged from the lifeblood of her family, a conglomerate of immense faith and the concept of the cherry blossom. It was an excellent "interface" through which she could wield her power, and her torso was the manifestation of this interface in the physical world. There were no whispers, no revelations. All guidance was as obscure as the starlight in the night sky. She had to empty herself with extreme piety to catch a faint, vague vibration at the edge of a trance, and then, using skills honed through arduous training, translate it into a course of action.
Tonight, the moonlight was like liquid mercury, once again bathing the main hall in a cool, clear light.
The ritualistic cleansing was complete. Mikami Sakura (her head) hovered, directing her own hands to caress, with the gentlest of motions, the torso that sat in the shrine, bathed in silver light and the sakura-colored aura.
The touch was warm and familiar, carrying the faint heat of life. The texture of this skin, the shape of these bones—she had once coexisted with them. A complex pleasure, a mixture of reverence and intimacy, flowed from her fingertips, making her heart tremble.
'Is this pleasure... mine, or Shin-ou's?' 'If Shin-ou is a concept, how does It perceive?' 'If the perception comes from this body, then isn't this pleasure still "mine"?'
Her thoughts were like tangled threads, impossible to sort out, impossible to sever.
And yet, in her heart, the dark cloud of bewilderment never dissipated; on the contrary, it grew thicker in the silence. The object of her worship—was it an abstract concept? Was it her own body? Or was it a third kind of being, born from the union of the two, that she could not define?
The days with Shin-ou stretched on without end. This familiar yet alien body had become the entirety of her existence, even if she had never truly grown accustomed to it.
Sometimes, when those blasphemous, absurd thoughts crept into her mind again, she would try to reconcile them in a wry way: 'Perhaps these thoughts are precisely what Shin-ou allows me to have? After all, the heart that drives these thoughts is, at this very moment, beating steadily within the divine body. So, is this my irreverence, or is it some form of tacit approval, or even expectation, from Shin-ou?'
These thoughts occasionally gave birth to bold, private rites that belonged to her alone.
She had once deliberately submerged the divine body in an open-air hot spring, watching the warm water envelop the smooth skin, feeling the comfort and relaxation transmitted through the spiritual link. 'Does this please Shin-ou? Or... will it make It overheat and start smoking? Hehe,' she mused.
She had also secretly tasted a bite of spicy food, then listened intently until a faint but clear gurgle came from within the silent divine body. 'See,' she would tell herself with a bitter smile, 'even a god's stomach churns from mortal food. This gurgle—is it Shin-ou’s, or mine? Perhaps we're both happy about it?'
These small, deliberate profanities became her only way to fight against the crushing loneliness and absurdity, her tiny foothold in a chaotic faith.
She was still the shrine maiden of Shin-ou, the sword and shield of the Mikami clan. But deep in her heart, the answer remained distant, and the question was now deeply rooted within her.
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